


Jannequinard Actually

by Durendaire



Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-16
Updated: 2021-02-18
Packaged: 2021-03-17 22:01:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,369
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29478861
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Durendaire/pseuds/Durendaire
Summary: What if you wanted to go to Halone's hallowed halls, but She said, "Aren't you the Dragoon who slept with both Durendaire brothers?"Slight spoilers for Patch 5.45 quest 'A Parley with Pirates', and many of the AST quests regarding Jannequinard.
Relationships: Carvallain de Gorgagne/Warrior of Light (Final Fantasy XIV), Jannequinard/Warrior of Light (Final Fantasy XIV)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 24





	1. Chapter 1

“ _Jannequinard_?”

Amerigo blinks, unused to the accusatory tone taken by Carvallain de Gorgagne, captain of the Kraken’s Arms. The realm’s most pretentious envelope looms between them, pinched between Carvallain's dark fingers with such ill intent Amerigo’s afraid he'll injure himself. Amerigo blinks once more.

“De Durendaire,” he finishes against his better judgment, plucking the correspondence addressed to him—and only him—from the captain’s grasp. Carvallain huffs, the mention of _that_ name stoking his ire even further.

“I’ve been waiting for this.” Amerigo turns the letter in his hand, examining it. It is blood red, sealed with golden wax stamped with the crest of House Durendaire, a bell, and written in golden, fanciful cursive. Whether the viscount himself or a scribe wrote the letter, Amerigo can’t say—this needless stationery luxury is the sort of pomp the Durendaires' least eligible heir would deploy, but it also requires patience and practice, and that seems beyond him.

Carvallain crosses his arms, taking a breath. “Waiting. For a letter. From Jannequinard de Durendaire.” The way he over enunciates each syllable in the surname, injecting as much disdain as possible is, frankly, _adorable_. But even Amerigo, who is scaled and clawed and whiptailed and has several ilms on the Kraken's captain, hesitates to confess such a thought.

“Yes,” Amerigo pits his weary patient voice against Carvallain, who is acting like a child. “You know I ran in those circles as a servant of the Holy See. Gods, it feels like a lifetime…” Yet it’d been less than a year, same as the divorce. Time truly does fly, especially after trauma. “I left in the middle of my studies at the Athenaeum. I thought it poor form not to explain my disappearance. We’ve been corresponding ever since.”

“With Jannequinard de _Durendaire_?”

Amerigo sighs. “Carvallain, is there something you would like to ask me?”

Carvallain turns, tightening his jaw. “Don’t you think it is a bit risky to associate with the viscount when you work for the Kraken’s Arms?”

“An interesting train of thought coming from the man who’s doing business with the viscount's _father_.”

Ah, an impasse. At a disadvantage, Carvallain steps back, reassessing. “Business is business. A Limsan street rat such as I would be foolish to let such an opportunity pass us by.” He shrugs, making that pose he always does, holding one elbow and turning up his other hand.

“Carvallain.”

“Yes?”

“Please, cut the bullshit. You and I are alone in this hall.”

“…”

Amerigo closes the distance. Carvallain, for his part, chooses to lean against the wooden wall. “What is actually bothering you about this?”

They both look on at each other in silence, the _Misery_ 's gentle swaying on the Limsan waves their only source of movement. After an awkwardly long moment, Amerigo hangs his head, defeated. His silvery-white hair brushes against the Captain's half-bare chest. “Good talk, Capt—”

“Are you going to fuck him?”

Amerigo stops in his tracks. He looks back at Carvallain, peering him up and down, incredulous. “I’m sorry?”

Carvallain coughs. “I asked if you’re going to sleep with him.” There’s something about Carvallain’s refusal to meet Amerigo’s gaze that surprises him. “I have heard rumors that the man is… _popular_ in Ishgard.”

 _Popular_ is an interesting euphemism even for a man who dabbled in euphemisms as readily as Carvallain. Popularity implies _fondness_ , not the animosity the viscount so easily brought out in the people of Ishgard—which was precisely the reason why Amerigo bothered to get to know the astrologian in the first place. _Personae non gratae_ should stick together, and how Amerigo delighted in being a thorn at the Holy See’s side. It seemed a natural conclusion, Jannequinard's fabled eccentricity be damned.

It dawns on Amerigo that Carvallain’s concern is baser. Confusingly so, given the status of their relationship—solely professional.

With benefits.

“Carvallain,” Amerigo says ever so carefully, “We are not dating. So why do you care who I might sleep with?”

“You are right. I don’t care,” Carvallain spits, shoving past. “Good day to you.”

Amerigo watches the Kraken’s captain stomp his way upstairs onto the upper deck. A scream pierces through the hold, then a voice that sounds awfully like Carvallain’s telling them to shut it.

“What in the Fury’s name just happened?” Amerigo muses out loud, slicing open the letter with one claw. “All of this for—what—a letter?”

☀·☾·〇·

_Ser Amerigo,_

_I have found the requested texts on the Dravanians and Saint Shiva. It was no small effort—although our nation is no longer at war with the dragons, I fear a thousand years of bloody conflict has made its mark in our curriculum. Nevertheless, your good friend Jannequinard has managed the impossible._

_No need to thank me, for a visit will do. These are not the sort of texts I am comfortable mailing to Limsa Lominsa, lest I invite a scandal upon the good people of the Athenaeum Astrologicum._

_Pray return to Ishgard at your earliest convenience. Attached you will find both an airship ticket and a generous sum for whatever costs you might incur during your travels._

_I look forward to your visit._

_Yours Respectfully,_

_Jannequinard de Durendaire_

_Viscount of House Durendaire_

_Chief Astrologian for the Athenaeum Astrologicum_


	2. Chapter 2

“Jannequinard.”

“Amerigo!” Jannequinard exclaims, elated. The pleasant notes of cedarwood and sage hit Amerigo’s nostril just as quickly as Jannequinard de Durendaire wraps his arms around his friend—lower this time, their differences in height more pronounced. He pauses, looking up at Amerigo’s chest. “I seem to have shrunk. Or you seem to have grown.” Amerigo coughs, looking towards the crowds at the airship landing, suddenly uncomfortable with the attention. “R-right, of course,” Jannequinard says apologetically, stepping back while dusting off Amerigo’s leather coat. “Not just taller, you seem…scalier. Horni—”

“Did you not get my letter? The one I sent before coming here?”

“No?” The confused inflection at the end of the word makes Amerigo wonder if Jannequinard is stating that no, he never received the letter, or if he’s unwilling to implicate himself in what’s likely a bureaucratic mishap. The viscount does not handle his correspondence without help. And, from what Amerigo remembers of the main desk at the Athenaeum, he’s not known for his organizational skills either. The letter could be buried in one of the many papers piles languishing in the room. Jannequinard shrugs, managing to look helpless.

“It’s…” Amerigo pinches the bridge of his nose. “A long story. Which I summarized in that letter. And will do so again. But not here. Take me somewhere else.”

Jannequinard holds one elbow and turns up his other hand, tapping his chin pensively. “Amenable to sweets?” I know a great patisserie near the Arc of the Venerable.”

“I…” Amerigo thinks for a moment. The crowd’s starting to stare—first at Jannequinard, then at Amerigo, whose Dravanian-like features are not looked upon with kindness even in this new age of enlightenment for Ishgard. A rosy-cheeked, well-dressed child gazes at him from behind his mother’s fine skirts. Amerigo hisses, then rattles his tail. The child yelps, then scurries away.

“Sure. Why not. Anywhere but here.”

  
☀·☾·〇·

  
_Jannequinard,_

_I understand. In turn, I ask for your discretion once I arrive in Ishgard._

_Remember our discussion about the effects of Dravanian aether upon the body, based on the truth regarding Ratatoskr and the Knights Twelve? Ends up that applies to prolonged exposure and non-Ishgardians as well._

_I am alright. Truly. I have made peace with it, as I have with the entirety of the Dragonsong War. But a thousand years of prejudice are not erased in a single night. Thus I would appreciate it if you play along, and pretend I am an Au Ra while about the Holy See._

_Your Friend,_

_Amerigo_

_P.S, I am no longer a knight, please stop referring to me as Ser._

☀·☾·〇·

  
“Ah, so that is why you wanted these texts,” Jannequinard alternates between speaking and licking a cream horn in a borderline lascivious manner. Amerigo for his part looks away, keeping an eye on the rest of the clientele—which is no one so far. “Would you please relax? Not only have you hardly touched your custard, but hardly anyone comes here at this time. It is a well-kept secret, not to mention the prices are hardly affordable to the majority of Ishgard…”

“So, what, you came here to flaunt your family’s wealth?” Amerigo never cared about wealth, even when his knighthood made him a noble, conferring special privileges he never bothered to take advantage of. _If the people knew, they would riot._ And they did—and Ishgard was better for it.

Jannequinard waves the cream horn in front of Amerigo’s face, gesturing with it. “On the contrary, it is my family’s wealth that has granted us an empty establishment. I slipped the baker a generous tip to make it so.”

“Oh, that’s—” Pragmatic, if anything. Thoughtful, even, towards the baker and himself. “Sorry, then. About what I said earlier.” Amerigo mollifies the shame of misjudging his friend by cracking the top of his crème brûlée with more force than necessary. Visibly, he starts to relax.

Nearly a year gone from the Holy See. Much had happened to push Amerigo away—their poor treatment of veterans, the growing realization that his skillset as a Dragoon was a relic of a bloody past, the ever-beating drums of war. To the East he’d gone, trying to ignore not only a crumbling sense of self but also a marriage. Unsurprisingly, he’d failed at that too, for the issue with running away is that, at some point, you have to stop running.

_A lesson Carvallain will soon learn, likely not on his terms._

Amerigo stares at Jannequinard, who’s prattling on about what he’s missed. The same tanned skin, rust red hair, ice blue eyes. The Durendaire look, as he’d discovered during his vision of the Knights Twelve—Ser Guenriol had been unmistakable. Amusing that, even after all these years, he could still picture his face better than Ser Haldrath’s. Amusing, and curious.

“—and that is when I told her that Bole was in retrograde, therefore…you are not paying attention, are you?” White cream blotted the edges of Jannequinard’s fingernails, almost all the way up to his jewel-heavy rings. But he was too caught up in the theatre of his disappointment to notice it.

“S-sorry!”

Jannequinard let out a long smooth sigh. “It’s alright.” He shakes his head. “The truth is I had missed…well, _this_.” He reaches over their table, gently squeezing Amerigo’s clawed hands. “You were always willing to listen to me in ways no one else had. Of course, there is always the Lady Leve—Master Rufin. And Kyokuho, I suppose. But you are the only one who truly listens, and lets me finish what I must say. I missed you terribly, my dear friend.”

Smiling softly, Amerigo squeezes back. “I…I missed you too, Jannequinard. So, you were saying…?”

“Ah, right! So…”


	3. Chapter 3

“Jannequinard, right,” Count Charlemend de Durendaire repeats, as if unsure he’s hearing correctly. “You say he’s the one who brought you to my manor?”

The conversation at the patisserie took them hours, so long that night fell, bathing the entire store in candlelight. Jannequinard’s long-winded nature, and Amerigo’s inability to stop someone once they got going, meant the head baker took it upon himself to usher them out of his establishment. It’d been a mortifying ordeal, Amerigo hating to be a bother, with Jannequinard assuring him that it was nothing gil, or his family’s name, couldn’t soothe. So they’d been tossed into the snow-covered cobbled streets, rapidly dropping temperatures forcing Amerigo not to return to his room at the Forgotten Knight, but accept Jannequinard’s offer into Durendaire Manor proper.

“Yes.” And then they’d rekindled their chitchat at the Durendaires, the place so massive it had wards. Jannequinard lived in one of the farthest from the main ward, a fact not lost on Amerigo. “I have long become inured to my family’s disdain,” Jannequinard exclaimed. Amerigo’s chest tightened, stoked the vindictive streak he knew himself all too capable of when he sensed mistreatment to those he cared about. Just because it’s ‘always been the way things are’ doesn’t mean they should continue that way. 

(That same mindset, he understood now, stoked a thousand-year-old fire burning in Ishgard. It’d been his distaste of tradition for tradition’s sake that spurred this fight against the Knights Dragoon and the Holy See. Meant only to be personal, at first. Yet so many others had the same complains, the same experiences, that it’d snowballed into a revolution he was powerless to stop. He’d never cease to be amused at how many stories painted him as some sort of revolutionary hero who knew exactly what he was doing. In truth, he’d only sought to air his grievances and, then, to protect those he cared for. For all the good that did.)

“I did not know he was acquainted with you. Perhaps I have misjudged him.”

“Not an acquaintance. A friend,” Amerigo corrects, crossing his arms.

Count Durendaire continues to stand in the middle of the hall, unaware—or, more likely, uncaring—he’s in Amerigo’s way. _I am in his house, after all,_ Amerigo reminds himself, ignoring the chill starting to set like a pall over his body. _But I’d also would love to bathe in their thermal waters, because I’m freezing my tail off!_ He coughs, shifting the luxurious white towel dangling from his forearm, hoping Charlemend takes the hint.

“Right, of course,” he replies infuriatingly un-self-aware, removing his leather gloves finger by finger. _By the Fury, if you don’t mov—_

“If you have the time, I would love to join you. There is a matter I would like to discuss anon, given that you are my intermediary to the Kraken’s Arms.”

Amerigo swallows thickly. Talking about the Krakens is the last thing he wants to do in this house. But, ironically enough, it is Captain Carvallain himself who’s placed him in this predicament—the terms of the contract state if the Count, or any of his immediately family members, have any questions and/or would like to contact the Krakens, they must go through him, the named representative and lookout of the Kraken’s Arms.

“It’s not as if I have much of a choice…”

☀·☾·〇·

It’s a strange thing to bathe with Count Durendaire not once, but twice. The waters here, as in Snowsoak Springs, are perfectly balmy. Unlike at Snowsoak, however, they are pleasantly scented. Roses? So light it’s almost impossible to discern. And the stonework’s different too—not Dzemael, but in the style of the manor itself, with glossy tiles and marble statues of saints and cherubs that remind Amerigo more of the Vault than a place meant for hygiene. Sacrilegious, perhaps? The Ishgardians so readily mixed the divine with the mortal, in the best and the worst of ways, that a statue to Saint Guenriol is likely the least scandalous object in this bathhouse. It does, however, comes across as a bit conceited.

 _Best not to think too much on it._ With an appreciate sigh, Amerigo sinks further into the pool, chest-high. Charlemend walks in soon afterward, wearing a simple pair of black trunks. He keeps to the edges, arms stretched behind him as he relaxes for a moment before delving into business. Satisfied it’ll be a bit before the Count speaks, Amerigo undoes his braid clasps, tosses them onto aside, then submerges himself completely. 

“I would like to meet the captain of the Kraken’s Arms.”

“—no!” Screams Amerigo as he resurfaces, choking on water. “Ah, a-ack!” He coughs, pounding on his chest for good measure.

“A-are you alright?! S-should I call a chirurgeon?”

“I-I’m fine. B-but n-no. To the request. A solid no.”

“Should I assume this has to do with why this captain refused to meet me that night?”

 _That’s one way to put it,_ Amerigo thinks as he regains his composure, choosing to sit at the other end of the pool in hopes the distance will make it harder to read his expressions. “He is a, ahh, private person. Extremely busy. And has his reasons as to why he’s still wary of coming here.”

“Right, right, of course. Like what the Miqo’te wench said at first—no business with any Ishgardian parties. I thought it strange at the time, but then I ruminated on it since that day. I and my compatriots have not been the most…open-minded when it comes to foreigners. It stands to reason this captain might have some misgivings about us and our trade deals.”

Surprisingly self-aware for a Count once fabled for his staunch conservative views. Amerigo can only nod, unwilling to interrupt whatever magic was being weaved, whatever realization Charlemend needed to reach on his own.

“I had hoped to make this request in person, so the captain would know the import of my proposal. But it seems I must go through you once more.” And Charlemend pauses for emphasis, or perhaps because he’s nervous. “His first shipment, everything he has sent us—”

_He didn’t like it, either because it’s not up to his lofty standards or because he doesn’t think it’ll prove profitable. Or the Krakens screwed up and sent him ‘spices’, as in firesand and ceruleum additives, instead of actual, literal spices. To flavor meals. Which is what Ishgardians wanted, it being so cold up here, and their food so bland. Because we’re supplying a housing district, not a godsdamned—_

“—has already sold out.”

Amerigo stops wringing his hair. He taps at a chin scale. “H-how’s that possible?” Gillions worth of spices, enough to supply the Bismarck for a year, gone just like that?

The Count dispels his confusion shortly after. “We underestimated Ishgard’s hunger for exotic herbs and spices—from the bistros and taverns and charitable kitchens in particular. As a matter of fact, everything was sold before the airship landed, because the manifest was inadvertently made public, _ahem_ …”

_I wonder whose screw-up that is…_

“Thus I wanted to ask if it were possible to double our previous order. I understand this is a massive undertaking requiring rapport we have not yet built as business partners, but I was hoping an extra sum and a dedicated fleet of airships to shuttle his goods to and fro might soothe the captain’s concerns…”

“I, uhh. Yeah. Sure. I don’t see why Carv—the _captain_ would say no. I mean, I must clear it with him first, but—”

_The captain loves gil. Your gil, hilariously enough. I’m sure there’s some deeply-seated reason as to why. Not that I could say what it is. Because the man’s an orphan. No family to speak of. Such a tragedy._

Charlemend gave a quiet smile. “Good, good. He would be a fool not to trade with Ishgard’s highest of houses.” But the way he said it—how his highborn lilt went wheezy first, then relieved —sure sounded like he was trying to convince himself more than anyone.

  
☀·☾·〇·

  
_Carvallain,_

_Forget Tataru, you owe me your life._

_Your Lookout In Too Many Ways,_   
_Amerigo_

  
☀·☾·〇·

  
“You are late for your lesson! Surely the tepid waters of the manor’s bath cannot be so delectable?”

_How can one man go from being so punchable to endearing in a singe motion?_

“Got stopped by the Count. Sorry.”

“Ah,” Jannequinard kisses his teeth. “Glad I am it was you and not I that was besieged by him. What did he want?”

Amerigo sets down his tools—a sextant, a pocket telescope and many charts, most of them of the skies above Vylbrand. “A business matter with the Krakens. Why I’m here as well.”

“And as I said before, I do not know how much help I will be with navigational charts—here we study the firmament and its movements so we might provide answers pertaining to our fate and to provide succor, not steer sloops—but I understand the value of a fresh perspective.”

“So, what constellation is that?”

Jannequinard adjusts his monocle, looking down at the chart where Amerigo's claw tip hovers above. He then looks up and grins brightly. “Curious. I do not know!”

Much to Amerigo's chagrin, Jannequinard looks unashamed.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm aware the developers clarified that Carvallain and Jannequinard are actually cousins, but I assure you this is much, much funnier if you continue to think of them as brothers.
> 
> With apologies to my Twitter following.


End file.
